Dark Deals
by THCampbell
Summary: An ongoing story set in the World of Darkness
1. Default Chapter

**CHAPTER 1**

**THE FIRSTING**

1996

Los Angeles, California

THUNDER ROARED in the sky and tore through his brain. His hands grasped his head, trying to stop the ripping atmosphere of his mind, but his clutching hands did nothing to quell the storm building behind his eyes. It needed out. It needed to be set free. He fell to his knees and sweat began to bead on his forehead as he fought it. Still, the red haze edged itself into his vision. Something was coming. Something he could not stop.

The pain from his busted lip and aching ribs fell away before this greater agony. It felt as if every cell in his body had suddenly thrown themselves into billions of blenders and, simultaneously, hit "Frappe". He'd never known that this sort of hurting existed. He hoped, if he somehow managed to survive this, he would never experience anything like this ever again.

Blood. He could smell it in the air now. He craved it, although a part of his mind balked at the idea. He wanted to feel its warm, stickiness on his face. He desired its salty, coppery taste and the sensation of it pouring down his throat. It was an animal lust, pure and uninhibited. It surged forward in him and he felt his control slipping away.

"Run," he yelled through the suffering, but he knew they would not.

The punks watched, a bit bewildered. This kid was not only a live one with a lot of attitude, but he was also completely whacked out. His little psycho-tantrum was all the proof they really needed,… but to tell them to run away? Not fucking likely. They had dragged him into the alley kicking and cussing, then commenced to beat his sorry, maniacal butt for a reason. They sure as Hell were not leaving without the leather jacket and wallet. No, the kid definitely had to be crazier than a shithouse rat to believe they would actually run. It just wasn't any good for a street rep if you ran just because some punk, mental-case told you to.

The kid's hand's dug into his unruly sandy-blonde hair. Sweat was now pouring from his head and hands, and his body shook like the L-train was passing through it. It truly might have been enough to send the punks on their heels, if it hadn't been for pride and greed. The kid smelled of money with his flashy jacket and suburbanite looks.

"Run," Hammer Tom laughed his moron laugh, and he rubbed his massive jaw where the kid had actually managed to land one. "I don't think so. Hey," his eyes never left the kid, "ya think he's gonna cry, Sykes?" Tom hoped the kid would. He popped his huge knuckles and smiled in anticipation of the sobs and whines to come. The kid had actually hit him, and he fully intended to repay that little kindness many times over.

"Who gives a fat fuck?" replied Eddie, who then turned to Sykes, "I say we stomp his sorry ass, grab the gear, and get." Eddied hid behind bravado, but he was fidgety (more so than usual) and Sykes could hear a faint tremor of nervousness in his squeally voice. Sykes would have normally seen this as a sign of weakness in his companion and chastised him for it later (there was never a place for weakness on the streets - you were either one of the sheep, or a wolf), but a certain edginess seemed to be creeping into him as well. There was certainly something "not right" about this kid.

"Tom," Sykes said, managing to bury the shake in his words. Tom pulled his fevered, bloodshot eyes off the kid and waited for the order. Savagery and violent dreams of the kid's fate played in Tom's eyes. "Do it."

Hammer Tom smiled with his crooked teeth, making him look more like some kind of troll than anything even remotely human, and turned back to the kid. Now came the really fun part. Now came the crying and the blood. Now came,…

Tom paused a moment, eyebrows rising in curiosity. Was the kid a bit bigger than he had been? A bit more buffed? His hair looked longer too.

Then, with a mental shrug and a muttered, "Screw it," Hammer Tom drew back his size thirteen Doc Marten and said, "Time to activate Daddy's dental plan, Kid."

Tom's foot swung towards the kid's down-turned head,… but met with razor-sharp fangs instead. A loud crunch filled the night, but it was not followed by the music of teeth skittering on pavement as Tom had anticipated.

The moments blurred. First, he saw that the kid was definitely a Hell of a lot bigger than he had been and covered in fur. Next, it seemed that the kid had simply shaken off the kick in the face. He then noticed the blood (maybe he had hurt the kid after all,… there sure seemed to be a lot of it). Lastly, he felt the pain. Tom looked down where his foot should have been, but seemed to be one shoe short. He hobbled, trying to balance on something wasn't there, and fell with a clattering crash into the side of a garbage strewn dumpster. Staring in shocked disbelief at the shredded calf and ragged stump that used to end with his right foot, Hammer Tom's mind searched for some sort of explanation. What happened? He looked up at the kid, seeking some sort of answer there.

The kid looked up, letting a mangled piece of black leather and flesh fall from his mouth, and locked his eyes with Hammer Tom. Tom couldn't help but think that he had never seen anything quite this pissed off.

The kid, who was no longer recognizable as "The Kid", leapt on Hammer Tom, closing its jaws on his exposed neck and raking his chest with taloned hands. Tom flailed, but could not escape his "victim". Blood flew through the air, some splashing across Eddie's wide-eyed, gaping face, but his mind registered nothing. His bottom lip quivered and tears of fear welled up in his eyes. Death had come to this alley and it wasn't leaving until its job was done right.

Sykes stood and watched dumbfounded. "The Kid" had increased nearly double in size; was covered in thick, yellowish fur; and appeared to be something akin to a "Rotweiler-from-Hell". Each finger was tipped with a claw the size of Sykes' switchblade, and from the damage they were doing to Hammer Tom, each was every bit as sharp, if not sharper. "The Kid's" mouth was now full of wicked-looking, gore-stained fangs; from which a chunk of Tom's throat hung.

Eddie fell against the wall, cringing and wetting himself. Sykes could only watch, trying not to move or draw the thing's attention. A part of his mind still struggled to grasp what it was they were seeing. He was fascinated and afraid. Both held his feet in place.

Eddie died next. Apparently, "The-Beast-That-Was-The-Kid" found his mewling and blubbering as annoying as Sykes had. It pounced on the cowering form, abandoning its previous play-toy for something a little more frisky. It happened so fast that Eddie didn't have time for anything more than a choked, little whimper.

Sykes' eyes flickered to the messy ribbons that used to be Hammer Tom. His chest lay open and his viscera were thrown about like toys in a two-year-olds room. Blood streaked his otherwise untouched face. A clean path led from one of Tom's lifeless eyes down his cheek. A single tear had managed to fall, then Tom could cry no more.

Looking away from his former-friend, Sykes looked back at the doom that would surely not stop until he, too, lay dead. Still, he could not run. Something about this creature transfixed him. He'd seen something like this before, he just couldn't recall where that had been. So, he stood pondering, and watched as its dense muscles rippled and delivered its deadly blows. He watched as blood and foam flung from its maw. He watched as pieces of another of his friends fell away, like a sculptor's discarded stone. He watched as the light and terror faded from Eddie's eyes.

As if sensing that this toy had also lost its usefulness, the creature rose up on its hind legs, turned, and glared at Sykes. An unreasoning, animalistic anger burned in its eyes. Its towering, nine-foot body was clothed in blondish, blood-soaked hair; but Sykes could still make out the remnants of the tattered rags hanging from its massive form. The gear he and his companions had so coveted a few short minutes before. A burst leather jacket here, what was left of jeans there. This obviously was "The Kid", but what had happened to the punk they had dragged into the alley?

A sudden memory surfaced in Sykes' mind. A few years ago, during a brief period that his folks had determined that they needed to spend some "quality time" with their boy, they had taken a trip. In his mind, the entire venture had been a complete and utter waste of time,… all except the San Diego Zoo. He had tried to play it cool, but it had been quite clear (even to his less-than-adequately-skilled parents) that he had truly enjoyed his time there. He had run all over the park, watching the animals with keen interest. One exhibit in particular had drawn him back again and again. For reasons unknown to him, he felt some deep connection with them. He spent hours watching them. So sad and alone, yet somehow still majestic. Looking in the eyes of the monster before him; he saw that sadness, that loneliness,… but never in the eyes of the zoo-born creatures had he ever imagined the rage that must come from such emotions.

"You," he stammered, "You're a wolf." The simple statement brought the monster on him with a roar and the whoosh of claws cutting through the night.

It was over quickly.

When Kyle Nines awoke, the rain had begun, but it was only beginning to wash away the gore of the punks that had tried to mug him. He had no memory of the events that had led him to this point, but he knew something incredible had taken place. A new power surged through his fifteen-year-old body. He felt invincible, but afraid. What was happening to im? He looked at his bloodied hands and the bodies he shared the alley with. They were mangled and ripped apart. Parts of them looked like they had been chewed on. Had he really done all of this? Was he truly capable of such? Scarlet splashes streaked the walls and pooled by his attackers. They had died horribly violent deaths. If he was found here, he would be in some seriously deep shit.

Quickly piece-mealing clothing for himself off the punks, he tried to come up with some sort of plan on what to do next. He had to find a secluded spot, or the torn and blood-soaked clothing would surely draw much unwanted attention. That, and the feel of the already cool blood against his flesh, made him uneasy. He had murdered three people, the thought struck home. Panic started to rise up in him. He had to get out of here, but to where?

As if to answer, "Not here," the rain intensified. Kyle Nines fled into the curtain of the newborn evening in search of shelter from the storm. He would try to figure this out later, when he had a safe and dry haven in which to collect his thoughts. Someplace that didn't reek of death and innocence lost. Someplace where he would have time to piece together the puzzle his life had become.

From above the alley, a figure watched as Kyle Nines disappeared into the downpour, and smiled. Xochipilli-Never-Frowns had been privilege to many sights in his years, but never to a Garou firsting.

"And to think," Xochipilli said to no one, "He got his cherry popped by three simple guttersnipes. Must be an Ahroun." He paused to ponder this tidbit, playin semi-consciously with one of the feathers braided into his ponytail, then continued his dialogue with the night's rain. "Yup," he reaffirmed, "definitely an Ahroun." His face lit up with a revelation, "Wow! I should follow this one. It could be quite entertaining." His smile took on a more devious cast, "No tellin' what lessons he'll need to learn."

Something, down amongst the carnage, caught Xochipilli's eye. At first, it appeared only to be a scrap of leather from the boy's jacket, but something still nagged the corner of Xochipilli's mind. Being of the curious sort, he chose to investigate.

Dropping the thirty feet onto pavement would have hurt, if not crippled, any normal man. Xochipilli prided himself on being anything but normal. Normal men didn't have the benefit of spirits willing to teach them really neat tricks like the one called "Catfeet". Xochipilli did have those benefits, and he could fall much higher than this simple roof and walk away unscathed. His soft leather moccasins made almost no noise as he landed.

Scanning the alley, Xochipilli quickly reacquired his target and moved towards it, attempting to avoid the pools of ichor. He had no problem with gore, he had seen and caused plenty of it in the past, but getting bloodstains out of the soft, leather boots was always such a pain-in-the-ass. It took him only a few moments to navigate to the object he'd spied from the rooftop. As he approached, he realized what it was and why it had drawn his eye.

The object was indeed made of black leather, but its shape was too purposeful to be a shred of the has-been jacket the boy had worn. It was squared off and thick, well worn at its edges, and one tiny piece of green, papery substance peeked out from its folds. The boy's wallet, left in the haste of his escape. Xochipilli smiled, it would not do to leave this behind. Sooner or later, the humans would come and they would be looking for answers. This bit of evidence would give them far more than they needed to know,… not to mention that the boy's Garou folk would come searching for him as well. No reason to make it too easy for them either.

Xochipilli picked up the wallet and thumbed through it briskly. The boy had fifty-seven dollars, a key to some sort of locker, and was called "Kyle Nines". His ever-present smile widened at this new-found treasure and he slipped into the bag he carried at his hip.

"Now," he spoke to himself aloud, "to find this Kyle Nines and return his property."

Xochipilli Never-Frowns whooped loudly, and with great delight, up at the dark sky; then he stepped sideways into the realm of spirits, the Umbra, with Nuwisha ease.

Only a few hours had passed since Kyle Nines had had his run-in with his would-be muggers. Their scents and their blood still clung to the rain-dampened clothing he wore. He'd have to find new clothes soon, as these were just a bad scene waiting to happen.

After several failed attempts, he'd finally found a door to an abandoned building that he had managed to force open. Judging from all the dust covered shelving, this had at one time been a bookstore of some kind. Now, it was his refuge. A place to get out of the rain and try to figure out what the Hell was going on. So much was happening so fast.

A hasty search of the shop turned up little of any real use. A few discarded newspapers, almost three years out of date, and the remnants of a waterlogged cardboard box. Another search, this time of his purloined attire, garnered him a pack of severely abused cigarettes (only two of which appeared smokeable), a cheap plastic lighter, and a switchblade.

He retired to the backroom, where his point of entry had been. Lighting up one of the good cigarettes and huddled up in the corner, trying to retain his escaping body heat. Shivering slightly, he wished that he had his daypack with him, but he had stashed it in a locker at the bus terminal. A new fear rose up in him. He abruptly tore through his pockets again. His wallet was gone! He thumped his head against the wall in denial. He had no money and no key to the locker. Instead, he possessed only the blood-covered clothing. And, to make matters even worse, he had left his wallet at the scene of a triple homicide. Life surely couldn't get any worse.

Tears of self-pity began to blur his vision. If only he had stayed in New York. If only he hadn't run away. It hadn't been that bad, had it? Compared to this, it had been a cake walk. Now, he was a criminal - a murderer - and wore the evidence as his only change of clothes. At home, his father had taken pretty good care of him. He had never raised a hand to Kyle, never treated him badly; but for some reason, Kyle had just been so angry lately. He couldn't explain it. The smallest of things was enough to set his fuse to burning and something deep within him would bubble upwards, trying to break free. This new sensation felt like the purest essence of anger, a murderous rage welling up. "Rage," he thought, "Yes, that's what it was. Rage." He couldn't this new feeling's origin, but that those around him seemed able to sense it as well. Everyone he knew had begun to treat him differently. Friends, teachers, family,… all had began to act like he was some sort of murderous, psycho freak. He thought back to the grisly scene at the alley. Maybe they were right. He'd finally gone off the deep end and killed three people, and his only memory was of the "Rage" building up in him, then waking to their remains. What had done this to him? He'd always been a fighter. His mouth and his attitude left him little choice in the matter, but he'd never thought that he would ever actually kill someone. Now,… now, things were different. He'd taken the final plunge and the life he had know before was gone forever.

A memory of the dreams came unbidden to his thoughts. Could they have anything to do with his new "Pissed-Off-At-The-World" lifestyle? They had begun about the same time, but did dreams really have that kind of power? For months, he had been suffering from terrible recurring nightmares of monsters disguised as humans committing numerous atrocities to people and the environment. He'd never been real big in any of the environmental protection movements, but the glee with which these monsters destroyed made him feel that Rage swell within him. He wanted - no, he NEEDED - to kill them. It was not so much a wanting as it was a moral imperative. Those creatures would ravage everything until nothing was left, and do it happily. Nothing seemed sacred to them, save for the acts of destruction they reveled in. If destruction was what they craved, he would give it to them. He would relish the feel of their blood on his claws.

Kyle's mind flashed back to the present and found his body shaking with pent-up anger. Even the slightest thoughts of those demons was enough to infuriate him.

Claws? The new thought bled away his fury and left him feeling quite perplexed. Their blood on his claws? What was that all about? He thought back to the dreams. Yes, come to think of it, in the dreams he'd always been equipped with claws. Wicked talons that would spill the entrails of his enemies and tear apart their weaker bodies. In the nightmares, he would always end up fighting with the monsters. He would slaughter them in countless numbers, but there was always so many more of them,… and he, alone. They were overwhelm him. Drag him down. Torturing him in the darkness until they made him one of Them. His body shivered again, but not from the chill this time.

A loud bang from the front of the store interrupted his reverie. Someone had forced the front door, he realized. "The Monsters," he thought. No, that was impossible. There was no way such beasts could survive outside of his dreams.

Staying low, he peeked around the corner of the doorway and into the store proper.

"You're sure he's here, Gwen?" The question itself came in a gruff and harsh tone, radiating the speaker's irritation that was held in check by willpower alone. The figure that the query issued from was huge. Nearly seven-and-a-half feet tall, with biceps as big as Kyle's head. This guy made Arnie look like the "Before" guy in those muscle ads.

"Like, fer sure. That's, like, what the kin-fetch said, and, like, I totally trust those guys." The woman's voice was much more pleasing to the ear. It was mellow and laid back, but contained a lot of what Kyle liked to call "airheadedness". In the darkness it was difficult to be sure, but her silhouette had a certain easy-going attractiveness to it, and an aura of peacefulness exuded from her presence.

"Gib," the big guy asked, "You got anything?"

"One moment, please," replied a calm voice from the third, and last, figure. He stood at an average height and average build, but what unnerved Kyle was when his eyes began to glow a soft red color. The eyes scanned the room and settled upon Kyle's hiding spot. "Affirmative. He's in the back room." Kyle could hear him smiling.

Kyle pulled back behind the doorway, out of sight, his heart racing. The jig was up! He didn't know who these people were nor their intentions, but they were looking for, and had found, him. He had to get out of here, and fast.

A loud commotion erupted from the front room, and someone yelled, "Run, Boy!"

Kyle bolted out the door, and back into the night.

James Fire-In-His-Heart hated many things in life, but that which he hated most was babysitting detail. That was no way for a noble Get of Fenris Ahroun to be spending his time, but that was exactly where he found himself. It was supposed to be a big party when a lost cub was found, but this one was turning out to be a true pain-in-the-ass. First, they had tracked him to the bus station, and from there to an alley off of Wilshire. On that dark back street, they had found testament of his presence and probable firsting. The bodies had been torn to shreds, but still no sign of the know-nothing pup that was on the loose somewhere in LA.

"Like, well, it's, like, totally obvious that, like, he was here," Gwen had said in her "looking-for-the-silver-lining-Child-of-Gaia" sort of way. It really irked James when she did that.

Gibson hadn't offered any useful suggestions either. He had only shrugged and muttered something about "An American Werewolf in LA" under his breath.

Then, if it hadn't been for the Umbra, they would have taken the rap for the deaths, as the police had finally decided to show up. Hours later, after Gwen had consulted with the kin-fetch spirit once again, they had arrived at the deserted bookstore. Now, James was in a really sour mood, and he hoped that they had finally reached their mission's end.

"Affirmative. He's in the back room," Gibson Burning-Chrome had said. James had enough time to allow himself a slight, satisfied smile,… then all Hell broke loose again.

A figure vaulted over one of the dusty bookshelves, planted both feet on James' chest, and pushed. The big man staggered backwards, arm flailing for balance, into another empty shelf. It toppled over with a loud crash and tripped him up further. He smashed into the fallen furniture, cursed vehemently, and glared up at his attacker.

"Run, Boy!" the silhouette shouted, then turned back to face James. Outside, the clouds parted, bathing the store in moonlight.

"You!" James exclaimed in disbelief.

"Me," Xochipilli Never-Frowns reaffirmed proudly.

"Like, hi, Xochi," Gwen absently twirled a bit of her blondish hair.

"Gwen," he nodded to her, "beautiful as always. And Gibby, you're looking oh, so,… solemn tonight. What happened? Did somebody pee on your laptop?" Gibson only stared at him with a somewhat perturbed look on his face. "Quite the conversationalist as always, I see. There just is no shutting you up, is there?" Xochipilli laughed mirthfully at his own jests, and turned his attentions back to James, "And; last, but not least; my favorite poster child for decaf. What's shakin', Toots?"

James picked himself up and drew himself up to his full height. "What are YOU doing here, Xochi?" The question dripped like venom from his tongue, and he felt his Rage building. "This is none of your concern."

"Au contraire, Kimosabe. I saw him first. I gots dibs."

"What are you talkin' about?" James' voice raised, and he was only barely holding the Rage back. The nerve of this Nuwisha. "He's one of us. Not one of you." He spat the word "you" like some sort of curse. No stupid werecoyote was going to steal this pup away from them.

"Oh, I disagree. He's not one of you yet," retorted Xochipilli, still all smiles, "Not until you get your paws on him and warp him with your silly, little ways. Nope. Not this one," Xochi shook his head, sending the ponytail whipping back and forth, "This one's special. Coyote wants him, and I deliver." He smiled mischievously at those before him. "You know I will."

"But, like, Xochi, he's supposed to be, like, a GlassWalker or some junk," Gwen Wallace cocked her head to the side and through her own logic into the debate, "Like, what would Coyote want with him?"

A "hmmph" issued from the area occupied by Gibson, followed by a baleful look cast at Gwen.

"Like, Omigod! Like, I'm totally sorry, Gib. It's, like, sometimes my tongue moves faster than my brain."

Xochipilli whooped loudly, "Ain't that the truth!"

Gwen smiled and blushed ever-so-slightly.

"You're off the point, Xochi," James broke in, trying to reassert control, "Why does Coyote want this pup?" James knew that Xochipilli was a master of double talk and leading people off of the true topic, but James was on to him. He wouldn't let the Nuwisha lead him astray this time.

Xochipilli shrugged. "I don't know. It's not my place to question Coyote. Him big, me small," Xochi gestured with his hands to further demonstrate the difference in their stature. "In the Nuwisha family, he is the Grand Pooh-Bah, and I, only his messenger boy. He is the King, and I am merely a page. I just do as he wishes and try to have as much fun as possible while I'm doin' it. And that is a lesson that could serve you well in the future, my friend." Xochipilli laughed, "You Garou-folk are way too serious for your own good. It's gotta be all that Honor and Glory you guys are always goin' on about. If you ask me, you be better off tryin' to attain Humor and Glee."

James lunged at Xochi, attempting to catch his jovial antagonist off-guard, but his hands closed on nothingness. Xochipilli Never-Frowns had passed through the Gauntlet, the barrier between the material world and that of the spirit, as if it didn't even exist.

"DAMN!" James shouted in frustration.

"Like, that was totally uncool."

"I hate to say it, James, but he did it to us again."

"What, Gib?" James asked in exasperation, What did he do to us again?"

"He sidetracked us long enough for the pup to get one helluva head start."

James slapped the heel of his hand against his forehead and mentally cursed himself for being an idiot. He should have seen it coming. It was one of Xochipilli's favorite tricks, and even knowing that, James had fallen for it hook, line, and sinker. He'd fallen into the meaningless banter and let the "stupid werecoyote" lead him away from his intended goal.

"Damn," James said again quietly, shaking his head. It was going to be a long night.

Kyle ran, and he ran like the Gates of Hell had just opened behind him and spewed forth its demonic host. He had no idea of where he was going, just away from those who had hunted him down in his safe haven. What they had wanted, he had no idea, but their presence had disturbed him greatly. They weren't cops, that much he was certain. He'd never met any police, or even heard of any, that could make their eyes glow in the dark. Whoever they were, he hoped that he could lose them in the darkness and the maze of streets. All he knew, was he had to get away from them.

He counted at least twelve blocks, making random turns, before he stopped to catch his breath. He felt safe for the moment, but clutched the switchblade and was prepared to bolt again at a moment's notice.

Leaning up against a gritty, brick wall, he panted and searched the gloom for signs of pursuit. The rain had slowed to a slight drizzle, and the clouds had opened up, illuminating the city with the full moon that hung in the night's sky. For some reason, his first sight of the moon filled him with renewed anger. The feeling wasn't bad, it was intoxicating, like the moon had sent a sudden jolt of furious energy. The sensation passed quickly, but his breathing had slowed to within normal parameters and his body felt revitalized.

A bit confused, he turned his attentions back to the problem at hand. He still had no clue as to what was going on. Perhaps those people in the store had been friends of the punks he had killed, seeking some sort of vengeance,… but how had they found him? Had someone seen him enter the bookstore? If so, why had the others come through the front door, as opposed to the one he'd already forced open?

"Well, that's just James' way," a figure stepped out of the alley a few feet from Kyle, wearing deerskin breeches and a matching, fringed jacket. His black hair was pulled back in a long ponytail with two large feathers woven into the braid. With a somewhat native American appearance and a disarming smile that any used car salesman would have killed for, the man approached Kyle. Having already seen too much today, Kyle refused to let himself be lulled into a false sense of security.

"Who are you?" he demanded, his body ready to fight or flee as needed.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Didn't mean to spook ya. Name's Xochipilli Never-Frowns, but you can call me Xochi." The man leaned up against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest, hands in plain view.

Kyle relaxed a bit, then recalled the thoughts he had been having just before this mysterious stranger had appeared. "You can read my thoughts?" Kyle asked in disbelief.

"Oh?" Xochi laughed, "Oh, no. I only read from a script Coyote himself has prepared."

"Coyote? Who's Coyote? And what's goin' on!"

Xochipilli laughed again, such a carefree sound. "Coyote? Boy, do you have a lot to learn? Sometimes even I forget what its like to open your eyes for the first time. Fortunately for you, I'm full of lessons to teach, and my schedule seems to be completely empty at the moment. Should you accept me as your mentor, I can teach you all you need to know, plus a couple-few tricks that might prove useful as well. If you go with the others - those that you saw at the bookstore - they could teach you too. Their ways are a little restrictive, while mine embraces the freedom Gaia granted us. Theirs is an out-dated chain of rules that they, themselves, barely pay attention to anymore. I can show you,…"

"Wait, wait, wait!" Kyle interrupted, "What the hell are you talkin' about! Rules? What friggin' rules! Your way? Their way? What is all of this? Things are goin' crazy, and I can't take much more of this bull!" It felt like his body was shifting and changing beneath the flesh, as the Rage swelled up in his brain. Power coursed through his limbs, and he felt the muscles rippling with new-found strength.

Xochipilli whooped twice loudly. "Yep. I was right. Definitely an Ahroun. Fortunately, Loki was one of Coyote's face that I followed for a time. Not nearly as rewarding as Xochipilli, but will prove quite a boon in this situation." Xochi's words somehow bled away Kyle's anxiety, and he felt his body reverting to normal. Xochipilli paused, made a clucking sound with his tongue and teeth, then continued, "One of the first things we're gonna hafta work on, is gettin' you to be able to control that a little better. I'm not afraid for myself, but humanity - in general - would not appreciate the wholesale slaughter you could bring into their midst. Take, for instance, the gangers that made your acquaintance back in that alley."

"You know about that!" A mixture of dread and shame gathered in Kyle's soul.

"Know about it? I was there." Xochipilli gave the boy an appraising look, "I know the Firsting can be rough. The first time anyone changes is almost always a little tough on the ol' conscience. People get hurt." Xochi shrugged nonchalantly, "That's just the facts. But, you gotta look passed all of that and see what the future has in store for you. I see big things ahead of you, Kyle. Some good, some not-so-good; but, come what may, these are to be your things to experience. No one else can do it for you."

"Firsting? Change? Change into what?" Kyle paused a moment, "And how do you know my name?"

"Oh," Xochi's smile broadened, "the last one's easy." One hand slipped into the bag he wore belted to his hip, fished around for a few seconds, and withdrew Kyle's wallet. "You left this in the alley, Silly. As for your other questions," he tossed the wallet to the stunned - and profoundly happy - boy, "well, those will take a little more time to explain. So, I tell you to cast away what you think you know of the world, and embrace all the things you never even knew that you didn't know. I can show you the path, but only if you wish to travel it."

Kyle looked at the wallet in his hand, then back up to the man before him, "Who ARE you?"

"Xochipilli Never-Frowns, but now we are recovering old ground and my question remains unanswered. Do you wish to know what you are, and why? I can teach you the ways of your people -BORING -" Xochi mimicked an uninterested yawn, "and mine. I can show you the wonders of worlds you never knew existed. I am your doorway to understanding. I am the gateway to your birthright. I am the portal to possibilities. Whadda say? Are you up to it? Think you can stand up to the Truth?"

Kyle thought. Either this guy was completely off kilter, or he knew what he was talking about. Both ways frightened Kyle. His life had been turned inside-out in a few short hours, but this Xochi-fellow seemed to know what it was all about. This self-proclaimed knowledge Xochipilli possessed made Kyle feel more uneasy than the ignorance he knew plagued him suddenly. Things appeared to be falling into place. What was it Xochi had said? "The first time anyone changes"? Kyle reflected on the effect the moon had had on him and recollections of late night TV movies pointed out a new theory to him. A crazy new premise promoted by hundred of hours watching cheap, horror flicks. But that wasn't possible, was it? He never been bitten by a wolf, so how could he possibly be a werewolf? Images of Lon Cheney, David Naughtington, and Jack Nicholson paraded past his mind's eye. Could he really be one of them? Cursed to become a bloodthirsty murderer every full moon? This new hypothesis at least explained part of the incident in the alley, although he couldn't recall if the moon had been up at that time or not, but it was full tonight. The moon was still out though, he realized, why am I not still a monstrous beast? Too many questions, and nowhere to turn for answers, except this lanky, American Indian, who smiled too much and seemed to find humor in everything.

Screw it, Kyle mused, I've got nothing to lose but my sanity.

"There they are!"

Turning to the shouting and the sound of feet slapping against concrete, Kyle saw the big guy and his cohorts from the bookstore charging down the block towards Xochi and himself.

"Okay," Kyle face the other man again, "show me."

"Your first lesson," Xochipilli grabbed his hand, "The Umbra."

The world blurred a moment, then became a much larger and wonderful place.

"DAMN!" James bellowed his disgust at the top of his lungs. He hated going back empty-handed, but the Nuwisha had obviously stolen the pup from his pack. They had just started to make a name for themselves at the Sept as well, and here came Xochi to screw things up royally as usual. It seemed to James that this particular Nuwisha lived merely to torment him, and he was very good at what he did.

For a moment, he considered taking the chase into the Umbra, but quickly decided against it. Chasing a werecoyote in the spirit realm was like chasing your shadow in an unlit room. And woe unto the individual that actually did manage to catch one there, because the Nuwisha had most likely allowed itself to be trapped and probably had some sort of "prank/lesson" in store for their captors. No, the world of the spirits was very much their collective place, and any battle with them there would be futile in James' eyes. It was better to let the pup go for now, rather than suffer the humiliation of defeat at the hands of a singular werecoyote. The pup would likely grow tired of Xochi quickly anyway, and then seek out his own kind later. James would just have to return to the Sept with the news of a failed mission.

He thought of the endless sea of questions the elders would have for him, and he could already hear that irritating Shadow Lord, Sheila Whispers-In-Darkness, commenting on how easily she would have taken the pup from the werecoyote, even though she'd never had any sort of dealing with a Nuwisha, much less Xochipilli Never-Frowns. Life would be tough until his pack received another chance to prove themselves.

"Damn," he swore again. It was going to be a very long night.

1996

New York City, New York

Among the columns of forged steel and shaped concrete, loomed the ebon monolith of Stane Industries. Its triangular-shaped roof knifed into the night sky stories above street level and its ominous presence was masked with the guise of big business deals and acquisitions. Very few were privy to its true purpose or the nature of its founder and present proprietor. Most, even many of those who wandered its halls in the daylight hours, had no notion of the evils that had been born within. Their eyes found only what they could understand,… and Garrison Stane was well beyond that.

He sat behind an enormous marble desk, his back to the panoramic view of Manhattan (displayed behind twelve-inch thick bulletproof glass) and drummed his fingers on the folder that lay before him. The Daily Reports. It held information of great importance to the survival and growth of the empire he had built, but Garrison's mind kept wandering to more personal concerns and goals. He loved his company, and the power and influence that came with owning the international conglomerate, but in his "greater scheme of things", the outcome of this particular enterprise (a company that had closed at a record high of on the stock exchange today) mattered little to him. It was only a tool to help him towards his "Greater Plan". Should he be forced to sacrifice the company to achieve his goal, then so be it. "Victory at any cost" was his motto, and failure was never an option.

Although these thoughts played at the fringes of his mind, Garrison Stane was bored, and only half-heartedly listened to the ramblings of his personal secretary.

"… up six points, and with the new shares the company acquired from Stevenson's widow, our profit margin made an enormous leap. Also, the Florida markets are a lock, and Denver should come on line in approximately three days. Construction of our offices there will begin once the papers are signed. Everything is being set-up as you prescribed, Sir. And that brings me to the final point on the agenda. The Seattle project. Our last projections show its completion to be in about five years. However, these estimates were made with current technology in mind. With the leaps and bounds made in the software and hardware industries, the possibility does exist that it could be much sooner. Perhaps in as little as two years."

Andrews studied his notes again briefly, searching for anything he may have missed. Finding nothing new to add, he brought his tired eyes to rest on his employer. Mr. Stane appeared to be either in deep contemplation on a point Eric Andrews had made or was completely uninterested in the going-ons of his one hundred billion dollar business. His eyes had glazed over, giving his stony visage that "faraway" look. Andrews hated when Stane did this, but would never even dream of saying anything. And not only because he wished to keep his job. He was afraid of Stane. He couldn't exactly explain why, but a hint of dread always crept into him when he dealt with Stane for long periods of time. Thankfully, meetings, such as this one, only occurred once a week. Other than a few hours late Thursday nights, Eric Andrews never saw his boss. All business and orders were sent via fax or messenger. It had taken Andrews quite some time to become accustomed to such protocol, but now he was quite pleased with the arrangement.

Moments ticked by. Andrews patiently waited for Mr. Stane to either dismiss him, ask for clarification on one point or another, or to issue an executive decision. During the drawn out silence, Andrews studied Stane, seeking the source of his disquiet in the man behind the desk.

Blacksmith's would have envied the body Mr. Stane possessed. He was anything but small, and his movements conveyed a message of quick power that resided in that massive frame. But even his intimidating size was not what disturbed Andrews.

"The eyes," he realized, "Yes, that's it!" Within them, secrets danced. Secrets never meant for mortal eyes. Stane's eyes knew all. Like dark pits in his head that penetrated into one's soul, found that individual's blackest hidden truth, and made it a part of Stane.

Mr. Stane's hand rested on the folder, two fingers absently kept up their steady drumming. Another folder, one Andrews had not delivered, barely peeked out from beneath the one he had brought to the meeting. A flash of curiosity burned through his mind. All documents to be delivered to Mr. Stane were to go through him, and he would see that they were passed along, whether they were to be faxed, delivered by messenger, or hand-carried by Andrews himself. It was his job, but he knew that this particular folder had somehow managed to slip through without coming to him first. He would have remembered the safety orange folder for certain. It nearly screamed to be seen.

Before his curiosity could overcome his nervousness, Andrews cleared his throat and spoke, "If there is nothing else, Sir,…"

Garrison Stane blinked like both he was coming out of a reverie and that he had expected it. The drumming fingers ceased and the room was engulfed in a heavy silence. Stane's gaze swept the room, finally resting n his assistant. Andrews' fear intensified briefly as the eyes seemed to bore into him, and he swore that he saw the corner of Stane's mouth flicker up in the faintest of smiles. "No," Mr. Stane answered in his deep baritone, "That will be all. Thank you, Andrews. You may go home now."

Spinning on his heel, Andrews moved towards the exit at a brisk walk. He was almost within reach of the door,…

"Andrews," Stane called out, "Actually, I do have one more question."

Suppressing the urge to sprint out the door and run screaming into the night, Eric turned to face his employer once more. "Yes, Sir?" he managed to keep his voice at least moderately steady. He was extremely jumpy now, and at a loss to explain why that was so. In the past, he had been nervous around Stane, but he was now sliding into the realm of panic. Something was very wrong here. Something he could not place.

"The item. Where is it now?" Stane's face was still an emotionless mask, although he now spoke of something the Andrews knew interested him greatly.

Andrews cleared his throat again. As he opened his mouth to reply, a movement in the far corner of the office caught his eye. A quick second glance told him that it must have been a simple trick of the light. "At,…" he began, "At the present time, Sir, the item is located with your British associate. He understands your wishes and has agreed to see it delivered at the prearranged time."

Mr. Stane's lips curled upward slightly, as if entertaining himself with a joke only he knew or understood, then looked down to his desk and the now-open orange folder, "Very well. You may go now."

Eric Andrews left as quickly as he could while trying to pretend to not be in a hurry.

From Stane's far right, a figure melted out of the shadows, as if he had been made of them himself. Wrapped in robes of raven black with emerald green trim, the individual within the folds was completely obscured by the garment.

"The Prince of London is trustworthy," its masculine voice rasped, "Continue to use discretion, and he will not question your loyalties, your Grace. However, I have foreseen difficulties leading to and during The Time of Truth. You shall not stand uncontested. My master says that precaution is called for."

Stane turned to the figure. "You should use some precaution yourself, Gornathorn. Could you not tell that young Andrews somehow sensed you? Now, I shall be forced to take care of him as well. A pity. He was a fine secretary. He will prove to be difficult to equal." Stane shrugged, "So, when have you foreseen our troubles beginning?"

"I apologize for the loss of a servant, your Grace. Were my news not important, I would have waited until you were alone." Gornathorn bowed slightly, "Our troubles surround the object of your desire, the Icon. The battles will be fought over a mere piece of the puzzle. When the Icon begins its journey, the troubles will grow."

Stane looked out at the city stretching out below for a moment, then replied, "Very well. We shall be ready."

19


	2. The Dancer

**CHAPTER 2**

**THE DANCER**

2001

Kitsap County Fairgrounds, Washington

Tatjana Batresmith danced, and with her danced the passions of a people that had been plagued with generations of misunderstandings. She danced not because she had to, but because she wished to bring the beauty of her people to those who watched her, those in her thrall. That, and a few coins, would buy meals for her kumpania tonight. The coins, that was easy. Her pena, Yvonne, and prala, Nikolai, would make sure of that. They worked the crowd of transfixed on-lookers, and tonight's audience promised a tidy sum. Most likely, it would pay for several nights of fine dining. But still she danced, and prayed that those who had their wallets filched would take some of the beauty she revealed to them back to their homes tonight. Tomorrow, the Kumpania Batresmith would be on the road once more, far from the Kitsap County Fairgrounds, and the gaje they had performed for would likely only remember them as "those thieving gypsies".

She whirled about in her colorful gypsy skirts and performed the traditional Zapaderin with breathtaking skill. Tonight, and the audience, were hers. She saw it in the glazed look in their eyes and smelled it in the post-rain air. She whipped her jet-black hair around, and felt them surrender even more of themselves to her. Her body gyrated and twisted with liquid grace, promising a sexual experience none would soon forget, but leaving it at only a promise. A tease. A wistful, lustful thought to be relived time and time again. She would haunt their dreams and fill their fantasies, because nothing that risqué could ever be won outside of mortal dreams. Her hips and pout spoke volumes of the guaranteed ecstasy and rapture. Her eyes told all they made contact with an unconditional love she held for each. Her hands wove sensual patterns of lovers' caresses and wanton abandonment. And yet, when she danced, she remained unattainable. She was their Goddess of Motion and Gracefulness. She was their one want and desire.

He dance lasted only fifteen minutes, but as she finished, she knew that she would spend the night in many chimerical beds. They would remember. She could smell the arousal in the air, its heady musk thick and aromatic. With a deep curtsey, she left the makeshift stage and headed for the trailer she shared with her brother and sister. Nikolai and Yvonne would be waiting there with the night's "earnings".

It took a few moments for the audience's minds to catch up with the present. All tried to commit the scene to long-term memory, then applauded loudly. Tatjana felt pride swell up in her bosom. The beauty of the Rom had been communicated.

A lone figure stood in the throng, and though he had been completely enraptured by the performance of the magnificent and mysterious woman, he could not bring himself to clap. Worry and concern had etched themselves into his features, and he searched near his feet for the package he had been on his way to deliver before he'd been sidetracked.

When he could find no trace of it, RanMichael Berlanger' knew his Toreador curse had betrayed him yet again. But this time, he was in real trouble.

Closing the door behind her, Tatjana asked, "So, what did we walk away with?"

"We're still counting, but it looks very good," Nikolai replied enthusiastically. His roguish smile said it was well more than previously anticipated. "Very, VERY good."

"Of course," Yvonne piped in, "you know that father will want at least half for the Kumpania, but…" her somewhat dour expression turned to a smile, "and you did very well tonight as well. I have never seen you perform so well."

"Why, thank you," Tatjana curtsied again, and her brother and sister laughed with her. Spirits were always high after a successful bujo, scam, but the compliment from Yvonne meant more to Tatjana than the money. "I believe my performance can be attributed to Baba Ellen. She did a reading for me this morning and said that 'change and great passion' would be in my future. Her words inspired me."

"Yes, but remember," Yvonne cautioned, serious-faced once more, "Passion is not always a good emotion."

"Aye," Tatjana replied and with a graceful twirl of her skirts, plopped herself into a vacant chair, "but my heart promises me more this time," she continued wistfully and dreamy-eyed.

Nikolai laughed, "Oh, no. Not that again. We'll be nursing her broken heart within a fortnight."

Tatjana snatched up a pillow from underneath the chair and hurled it at her brother, who deflected it with practiced ease. "You will not!" she cried indignantly and now on the defensive, "This time will be different. I am no longer the heartsick child you believe me to be. I am a woman now, and my heart has learned from its mistakes. Besides," she stuck out her chin defiantly, "the visions have come to me, and Baba Ellen says that they will come to pass."

"Visions?" Yvonne's head rose from counting, "What visions? Have the dreams begun again?" There was worry in her voice, as the past had taught her well to fear Tatjana's dreams.

"Oh," Tatjana waved her hand at her sister and smiled a reassuring smile. "It was nothing like the old ones. This was a good one. I dreamt of big changes, heralded by the coming of a package." She beamed at her siblings, wanting them to smile back and put the past behind them.

Nikolai and Yvonne looked at each other stunned, but seeming to communicate volumes in their pause. Finally, Nikolai turned toward his younger sister, cleared his throat and spoke, "A package, huh?" He tried to cover his nervousness with a faltering smile and false bravado, but it was still apparent that something was amiss. "Then, maybe, you can explain this." He reached down next to his chair and picked up an item that lay near his feet.

Tatjana's eyes widened as her dreams showed that they had one foot in reality, and the herald had arrived.

The music, the laughter, the company, the songs and stories; Ani-Ket-Roo found all these things intoxicating. Many of his journeys lead him down paths that he must walk alone, but he welcomed the opportunities that allowed him to travel with companions, especially the Kumpania Batresmith. He had traveled with other kumpanias of Rom, but the Batresmith family always made him feel the least like an outsider. Rune Batresmith himself had actually made Roo an honorary member several years ago when Roo had stumbled across a fomor that had been about to attack Tatjana and Yvonne. Unfortunately for the Wyrm-twisted human, Ani-Ket-Roo was not a defenseless as he first appeared. He had been blessed at birth by Gaia to run with the moon and be one of Her warriors, a Garou. The fomor had been ill prepared to deal with such, and was now buried where he would never be found.

From that day forward, Kumpania Batresmith had welcomed him with open arms, and always understood when the road took him in a different direction than they were traveling. He wished he could stay with them more frequently, but his loyalties must first lie with Gaia and the battle against the corruption of the Wyrm. The kumpania realized the lot he had drawn in life was a harsh and bitter road, and always gave him solace when he returned.

For two weeks now he had roamed with them. From place to place, show to show, and his duties had not beckoned him elsewhere as of yet. It was an appreciated respite for the Silent Strider, and gave him the opportunity to spend some quality time with his second family.

His days had been spent wisely, or so he believed. He brought smiles to many of the kumpania's faces, learned a new trick or two (had taken to juggling like a duck takes to water), and had even managed to teach a few lessons of his own in the enigmatic Ragabash way. Not all of his teachings were completely appreciated as of yet, but Roo knew that they would be in the long run.

During his stay, he also found himself growing very fond of several of the kumpania, but none so much as Tatjana. She had been a wonderful girl, and during the time he had been away from the family, had blossomed into a beautiful woman. He found her zest for life and, despite her trade, romantic innocence refreshing and revitalizing. Merely being in her presence did his soul good. To hear her laugh, and to see her smile, was the medicine he needed to erase the loneliness that sprung from his solitary life. She, within a very short time, had carved her own little, personal niche in his heart. It had shocked him the day he realized that he had fallen for her; and he now kept it hidden away, afraid of the cost of such emotion in his life.

Now, Roo wandered the camp, listening to laughter and a dozen conversations all blending together, and trying to keep Tatjana from dancing in his thoughts. Tonight had been good for the kumpania, both on the legal side and otherwise, and spirits were high. Only a few of the gaje, outsiders, remained, getting their palms read or buying trinkets of protection and charms of love. When the last of these were gone, the real festivities would truly begin. A wild night of singing and celebration. In the morning, the kumpania would be packed up and headed down the road towards their next stop.

"Uncle Roo," a timid voice came from behind him.

He turned, smiling, and was not surprised to find Emily, the youngest of Rune Batresmith's eighteen children. The six-year-old was destined for great beauty, and had already learned how best to put her enormous green eyes to good use. They could melt the heart of even the most stone-souled son-of-a-bitch. Her raven hair had never been cut and hung nearly to her waist, and on her lips, a cherub-like pout played. In her tiny hands, she held an ornately carved box.

"Yes, young one," Roo knelt to be at eye level with the girl, "How may I be of assistance?" He flipped his black curls out of his eyes and his olive complexion split into a reassuring grin.

She held out the box to him, it looked gigantic in her hands, "Can you fix it? It won't work right."

Roo's smile broadened a bit, "Well, you have certainly come to the right place. I just happen to be an expert 'Box-Fixer-Upper'."

Taking the box into his own hands, Roo marveled at the craftsmanship. A beautifully tooled picture of swans and ivy decorated its deep brown surface, and it was quite a bit lighter than he had expected it to be. The hands of a master had been at work here, and no detail seemed to have been overlooked. Even the hinges and wooden clasp blended into the scenery of Emily's little treasure. For a moment, Roo began to wonder from where the girl had acquired it, but decided that it really didn't matter.

Working the clasp with his thumb, Roo opened the box. A tinny commenced and a small ballerina in the middle began to spin in an eternal pirouette. Roo let out a small laugh of surprise and delight. He hadn't seen a music box in many years, but it was just as he remembered. The craftsmanship of this one far surpassed any he'd seen before, but the similarities were still there as well.

He watched it for a few seconds, and just as he was about to ask what was wrong with it, it happened. The pirouette and music slowed quickly, dying out. The final notes of the tune gave off an ominous quality, and the night seemed to darken a bit.

A familiar feeling crept into Roo's body. His hands tingled and guts twisted. Something was drastically wrong.

The music bow forgotten or the moment, he scanned the immediate vicinity for any signs of the impending danger he felt. The camp, itself, had taken on a dreamlike quality. Colors seemed both darker and brighter at the same time. The corners of his vision blurred into nothingness, and only snatches of the nearby conversations made it to his ears.

"… and as the fae folk danced, Luthnar could only watch," an old woman spun a tale for children congregated around a campfire.

"… the spirits of the water dance with your child," another woman congratulated a couple, handing them back their newborn.

"… never seen the Zapaderin danced so well," an awed voice commented.

"Yes," remarked another, "her dancing skills have improved remarkably."

"She won't dance anymore," complained the girl in front of Roo.

He looked down, but his eyes did not seek out Emily. They rested on the still ballerina instead. Her dance was done. It felt like a stone had landed on Roo's heart at the thought of it. He couldn't shake the feeling that something was trying to pass a message along to him through signs and portents. A part of him felt that he understood the message; the rest hoped he was wrong. Someone – or something – was trying to stop the dancer from dancing. In his gut, he knew who that dancer was.

"Can you fix it?"

Roo looked at the girl, a bit startled to see her. Reality snapped back into place, but the sense of dread remained, hanging like a death shroud in the air. Something terrible was on its way, and its target had been revealed to him. Tatjana!

"Sorry, Emily," Roo spoke hurriedly, pushing the box back into the child's hands. She barely had time to get a secure grip on it, before he spun on his heel and ran for Tatjana's trailer.

"I hope I can fix it," Roo thought, and prayed he was not already too late.

High in the sky, she hung. A gleaming beacon, whispering secrets down to her children. Many of those children accepted the gifts they had received from Luna; but, either through ignorance or uncaring, did not heed Her more subtle voice. They had seemingly forgotten how the hear Her soft voice, riding on the night's winds. They had forgotten that part of Her, making the night all the darker for them. Davian Skywolf was not one of those "lost" children. He had stared up at Her beauty for countless hours, basking in the wisdom She revealed, but tonight he could not allow himself that luxury.

On first glimpse of Her this night, Davian had felt his Rage surge and replenish as usual, then he had witnessed the only secret She had wished to share. The sky had tinged Her this evening, giving Her a deep crimson tint.

"A sanguine moon," he thought. A night of truly bloody work lay ahead, and a shadow of apprehension passed through his core. The prize for this evening could very possibly speed up or delay the coming of The Apocalypse. Powerful forces were at work, and - as if Luna had spoken directly to him - Davian knew he was a player in the game.

Gathering up his meager belongings hastily, Davian Skywolf, Theurge of the Uktena, headed off in a random direction. He knew that his destiny would embrace him.

"TATJANA!"

Roo burst through the door, nearly knocking Nikolai from his feet, and causing Yvonne to drop the wad of bills she just counted.

"Damn it, Roo," Nikolai complained, leaning against the chair he'd caught himself with, "What the hell is your…"

"Where's Tat?" Roo interrupted, hi frantic tone silencing Nikolai at once.

"I'm here."

Roo's head whipped around to find Tatjana emerging from the back room. Relief rushed through him. He wasn't too late to stop whatever was coming. She was safe for the moment, and if he had his way, the dance would dance again.

Breathing a sigh of alleviation, Roo relaxed a bit, "I was just worried…" He eyes locked onto the package in her hands. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end, as goosebumps erupted the length of his arms. The discreetly wrapped box caused Ani-Ket-Roo's stomach to roll in protest. Its mere presence seemed to foul the air. Whatever the package contained, it was not of benign origin. It was of the Wyrm. "What's that?" he managed, barely containing the notes of disgust and not taking his eyes from the offensive item.

Tatjana looked down at the package and shrugged almost nonchalantly, "Oh, this? Just something Nikolai nicked off one of the gaje. I dreamed of it. It is the herald of great changes," Tatjana's eyes grew wide. They were the eyes of a child that sees only the wonder in things, not the danger. "I was just about to open it." Her finger slid under a corner of the plain, brown wrapping that had been worked loose.

"NO!" Roo sprang forward, prepared to knock the profane thing from her hands if need be.

The sudden cry startled Tatjana, and her hand fell away from the corner, as she retreated a step from Roo. Fear filled her eyes and she looked to her siblings for support, but both seemed completely frozen by the spectacle unfolding before them.

"What… what," her bottom lip quivered, and tears welled up and spilled down her cheeks. The man she had come to see as her "protector" had looked at her with such stark anger and naked terror that coherent thought escaped her.

The immediate danger past, his features softened. He took a tentative step towards her, holding out his hand to show her that she was safe. "Do not open it," he said as calmly as he could. "Something is very wrong here. I think we should get someone to look at that," he gestured to the package, "before we allow it to bring any changes. Remember, change is not always a good thing. And no good can come from that."

Tatjana nodded slowly. She respected Roo, and his instincts seemed to be as good as anyone she had ever known. Perhaps it would be best if someone did look into this.

"Where do we go?" her voice cracked, and she absently wiped at the tears.

Roo stepped in closer and placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder, "We go to my people."

Once again, Tatjana's eyes widened. She was, as was most of the Batresmith Kumpania, kinfolk, but very few had ever been asked into one of the caerns. These rare and holy places for the garou were the sites of their greatest magics and were jealously guarded. Kinfolk often tended to the secured area around the caern, called the bawn, but they were almost never permitted any closer. From the look in Roo's eyes, he meant to take her in.

"But… but," she started.

"We have no time to debate. We must move, and move quickly before (_'she won't dance anymore'_)," Roo instinctively gulped, "before it's too late. I must go gather my things. Pack while I am gone."

Roo turned, leaving a bewildered Tatjana.

As his hand touched the doorknob he paused and looked over his shoulder. "We must travel quickly, so take only what you need. Pack light." Turning back to the door, he opened it and paused again. Once more, he looked over his shoulder. With a sheepish grin, he added, "Then put half of it back," and was gone into the night.

Less than twenty minutes later, Roo was hurrying Tatjana out the door. As he pushed, she shouted her good-byes to her brother and sister. Once again, the feeling of dread within her breast had turned to a much lighter sense of adventure. Tonight she would see things that few kinfolk were privy to. Tonight she would see the larger world.

Outside, the full moon shone, and the air seemed crisp with tension and excitement. Ani-Ket-Roo watched the shadows apprehensively, but Tatjana could only close her eyes and breath the cool night air in deeply.

"Come on," Roo took her hand and pulled her towards the shadows on the side of the trailer. "There is one more thing I must do."

In a more complete darkness, she could feel his eyes on her, and she heard his breathing taking on a rhythmic pace, as if he had fallen asleep.

"What are you doing?"

Shushing her, he continued the breathing for several minutes. She heard him move, then felt his hand on her arm.

"Wha…" then energy coursed through her. The ache and weariness in her legs from dancing washed away. Muscles unknotted and she felt completely refreshed and revitalized, ready for anything, as if she would be able to run eight back-to-back marathons and still be capable of a long night of dancing.

"Oh, wow," she sighed, not having realized how exhausted she had been. "That's quite a trick. What did you do?"

"I have given you the fortitude of the messenger. This will help us get to our destination quickly." She had never heard Roo with such seriousness in his voice. "Come. It is time we went."

His hand slipped into hers and they stepped from the shadows. They had taken three steps from the trailer when the screaming began.

"Find her! Find the dancer and she will know where my package is," RanMichael yelled at a leather-clad vampire.

"Ease off, gov'nor," Mitchell's thick Australian accent grated on RanMichael's nerves. "Me boys will find yer precious package."

RanMichael rounded on Mitchell. "Your 'boys' lack even the smallest hint of intelligence. If they fail, I'll have your head on a pla…"

Mitchell's hand shot out and seized RanMichael by the throat, silencing him. Eyes smoldering and fangs bared, Mitchell hoisted the struggling toreador a few inches off the ground and held him there. No one talked to the leader of Talimor's Havoc like that. Not if they wanted to live. The gang of anarchs may be a lot of things, but lap dogs to the likes of this pompous fool was not one of them.

"Looky here, mate," spat Mitchell, "We are here as a FAVOR to you. You're the bloomin' idiot wot got yerself into this fix. You came to us help, and we agreed. If you don't want to play friendly, we'll set new terms for the deal. I give a rat's ass if you see that package ever again. But you… you want it real bad. Must be important. So," Mitchell lowered RanMichael back to the ground, "if you want to see it and keep those boyish good looks of yours, I advise you to keep your gob shut and let us 'andle this."

Mitchell watched the anger flood into RanMichael's face and mentally dared him to push his luck, but Ran composed himself, taking a moment to readjust his shirt collar and straighten his hair. His eyes locked with Mitchell's for the briefest instant, then he turned away.

"Do what you must."

With a cocky nod to RanMichael's back, Mitchell turned back to the task at hand. "Boys," he shouted, "find the package and bring it 'ere." And, as if an afterthought, "Kill who you have to."

The screams were terrible. Ani-Ket-Roo wanted to go and help his second family, but knew that whatever or whoever was attacking must be after the package. Every instinct he possessed screamed that he could not allow it to fall into their hands. Much as it pained him, he had to leave the Kumpania to fend for itself.

Tatjana tried to run towards the screams, crying out for her father and several of her siblings. Roo tightened his grip and pulled her away, his own heart breaking a little more with each scream.

Rage swelled in him, like a storm blown sea pounding on the coast. He wanted to kill, to destroy those who had dared to attack his haven, but protecting Tatjana and her parcel must come first. He fought the Rage, blinked back the tears, and, pulling his ward in tow, began to run.

Gibber laughed as he tossed the old man's lifeless body to the ground. "God damn, this rocks!" He glanced around, searching for another victim, and saw two figures darting between some of the garishly decorated trailers.

The male in the lead was of unimpressive stature. He moved with an athletic gait, but to the vampire's eyes, registered as a minimal threat at best. His face was a mixture of rage and pain, his jaw clenched and eyes fixed resolvedly away from the fray. He wanted to fight, but chose to escape instead.

Trailing behind the man was a beautiful girl. She fought against him weakly as he pulled her away. Her tear-filled eyes turned back towards the camp again and again. Clutched tightly to her chest was a package wrapped in brown paper. A package that was just about the same size they had been instructed to search for.

A cruel smile crawled across Gibber's lips as his eyes followed the pair. "Hey, Misha," he called to a nearby clan mate, "we got ourselves a couple birds on the run. I think they got what we want. Grab some of the guys and let's go have a little fun."

A few encouraging tugs was all it took to really get Tatjana moving. Now she cried and ran blindly, relying on Roo to guide her to safety. All thoughts of a romantic adventure were wiped from her mind, replaced by the reality of screams in the night and the heady smell of blood. Roo wished he could have protected her innocence as well, but her life would have to suffice for now.

They had not traveled far from the camp when Roo caught the scent of their pursuers. After a few cursory glances over his shoulder, he swore softly to himself. There were at least four of them and they were gaining quickly. On his own, he could have taken the package, shifted into his wolf-form, and left them far behind; but he would not leave Tatjana to the same fate that had befallen the encampment.

Quickly weighing the options, he came to the conclusion that they would not likely be able to outrun the vampires. He could turn and face them, but in an open fight he was not sure that he would be able to protect himself and Tatjana from four or more opponents. No. A fight was imminent, but it couldn't be on open ground. If they were to have any chance at all, Roo would have to find a place where he could face his attackers one or two at a time. He was not very confident in his skills as a warrior, but he saw no other choice.

On they ran, Roo looking desperately for a place to make their stand. A place that would benefit Tatjana and himself, yet hinder their attackers.

Coming into a thicket of pines, the figure of a wolf leapt out in front out in front of them, snarling menacingly. The wolf's skin melted away quickly, transforming into the shape of a man. The design of white flames on black leather shone clearly in the gloom.

Without breaking stride and with quick-draw grace, Roo drew a sawed-off double-barreled shotgun from under his coat and leveled it at the vampire's throat. Roo squeezed both triggers.

Misha's hand flashed out with superhuman speed, slapping the barrel up as the weapon fired.

For a moment, Roo thought he had missed, but as the smoke cleared he saw differently. The top half, from the nose up, of Misha's head was simply no longer there. Time seemed to slow as Roo watched the body with morbid fascination. Almost giddily, he wondered why it was still standing. Finally, it's knees buckled and it toppled over, snapping Roo from his reverie.

RELOAD! he thought suddenly, remembering that there were more of them. He released Tatjana's hand and went for the extra shells in his pocket. He had managed to fish two out and was starting to turn, when a jarring blow sent him one direction, the shells another, and the shotgun yet another.

He hit the ground and tried to roll, but whatever had hit him landed on top of him. It laughed gleefully and slapped him in the face.

Roo let his Rage out; his body shifted to Crinos, and with a mighty buck and a howl, sent the vampire into one of the pines.

"Lupine!" swore one of the vampires.

"Well, well," Gibber strode into sight, "looks like our lucky night. We found the package, a beautiful woman, and a dog-boy to dispose of."

Checking his surroundings, Roo saw that the gang of vampires had taken up four corners on him. One, a female, held Tatjana, one hand tight on Tat's left bicep, the other threatening her throat.

The words came hard through Roo's Rage clouded mind, but he managed, "Leeches… Let… Girl… Go!" His hands clenched and unclenched, wanting to tear those unholy creatures to shreds.

"Now, now," tsked Gibber, "then what would we have to negotiate with?"

Roo tensed, preparing to pounce on one of them, and rescue Tatjana by force. The vampires seemed to sense his intentions and prepared for the coming attack. A hush fell over the group.

"Ahem." The sound broke through the silence, followed by a metallic snap-click. All eyes turned toward the sound.

A kid in his late teens stood facing the group with a Zippo in one hand and an unlit cigarette in the other. Long bangs hung down in his face, while the rest of his long hair was pulled back in a ponytail. His eyes never left the group as he nonchalantly brought the cigarette and lighter to his lips. Unblinkingly, he puffed twice to make sure it was lit and with a flick of his wrist doused the flame with a metallic snap.

Stepping from the shadows, the bright moonlight washed over the kid as he walked calmly towards the group. Pausing a few feet from the group, the kid looked up at the moon. A sleight smile played across his lips, as he seemed to bask in the light. Roo and the vampires looked on, struck dumb by curiosity. None seemed to know what to make of the stranger.

After a dramatic pause, the kid, eyes still on the moon, spoke, "Nice night for a party." His eyes sank back down to his audience, "Don't you agree?" He bean to peel of his jacket off, revealing the well-defined arms beneath. Half folding the jacket, he dropped it at his feet. Clad only in his T-shirt and jeans, the kid looked rather impressive. "But," he continued, "I don't think the lady wants any part of it. I suggest you let her go," he flashed a toothy smile at the female holding Tatjana, "before I rip off your arms and shove them somewhere very uncomfortable."

The threat seemed to snap everyone back into reality.

"Beat it, punk," Gibber chided, "This doesn't concern you. Run home to mama before she realizes you are out past curfew."

"Boy, you're quite the witty one, aren'tcha," sarcasm dripped from the kid's lips, "You know, you must be at least seven different kinds of stupid, and you're really starting to piss me off."

"Right," Gibber shrugged, "we just add one more corpse to tonight's agenda."

As Gibber lunged at the kid, Roo pounced. His claws dug deep into the she-vampire's throat. She burbled what was meant to be a scream and tumbled backwards. Her nails tore furrows in Tatjana's neck and rich, crimson blood began to well up from the wound. With wide eyes, Tatjana stumbled backwards, hands at her throat. She stumbled and tumbled over. Roo howled in fury and tore into his wounded enemy with vigor, sending blood in wide arcs through the air.

When Gibber came at him, the kid smiled a predatory smile. Diving for the neck of the kid, the anarch slammed into the powerful chest of another Crinos instead. This one was bigger than Roo by over a foot and a half in height and a good 150 pounds of muscle.

Suddenly, Gibber wasn't so sure about this whole scenario. He counted all his mistakes in a breath's time. He should have reported to Mitchell that they'd seen the package and brought the whole gang. He should have quickly killed the two rather than toying with them. He should have known the kid was a lupine. Gibber looked at his adversary. The last thing he saw was the glittering of saliva-coated fangs before they claimed his face. The mighty jaws clamped down and, with a loud pop and spray of gore, Gibber's unlife ceased.

Rushing to Tatjana's side, Roo immediately recognized the seriousness of her wounds. She was losing blood at an alarming rate and would likely bleed to death if she did not receive attention in the very bear future.

Shifting back to Homid, he tore off a piece of his shirt and began to apply pressure to the injury. He hoped the kid could finish off the other two alone; he just couldn't bring himself to leave Tatjana. Gaia, he prayed, don't let her die.

The two remaining anarchs squared off with the new garou. Splitting up, they began to circle him, setting him up so he would not be able to face the both simultaneously. The kid kept turning, trying to keep both in view. One feinted an attack; he shifted to face it, realized his mistake, and barely avoided the other. He countered with a rake, but caught only air. These guys were good. They had learned from Gibber's mistake and would not rush in to die a fool's death like he had. These would take more skill to kill. Well, a little more, the kid thought, noticing a pattern in one's steps.

Timing his attack, he waited for the target's cross-step, then feinted his own false attack at the other. His target tried to take advantage of the garou's back, but trying to correct his mid-step left him off balance. Fatally off balance. In a blindingly quick spin and the briefest glimpse of out-stretched claws, the vampire's head went tumbling through the air.

The final anarch launched an attack of desperation. Like a cornered rodent, he attacked with all the ferocity he could. Claws tore into the werewolf's side, and the satisfaction of the blood and a yelp graced the vampire. A wounded opponent was always better than a fully healthy one.

The lupine swung back awkwardly, missing by over a foot. The vampire grinned. This big, bad werewolf seemed to have a glass jaw. Lots of power, no stamina.

The two continued to dance, turning several times. The werewolf began to sway back and forth, his wound seeming to be getting the better of him. Blood was thick in the fur at his side, but the anarch was still taking no chances.

Another circle. The stranger seemed very unstable on his feet. He swayed drastically, staggered, and dropped to a knee. His head hung heavily, as if all the fight had bled out of him. The vampire smiled and came in for the deathblow. He would surely make lieutenant for this.

Two powerful hands came up, clamping onto both sides of the anarch's head, claws digging into his skull. The werewolf looked up and the anarch could almost swear that he saw a smile on those wolf lips. The claws burrowed deeper as the werewolf used its weight and muscle to bring the vampire's head down to meet a rapidly rising knee.

With the combination of claw damage and the speeding knee, the anarch's head exploded like a ripe melon.

A fog began to settle in as the stranger shifted back down to Homid. Roo watched as the kid picked up his jacket and headed towards them. The right side of the kid's T-shirt had a spreading crimson patch.

"You two okay?" he asked.

"She's hurt bad. Do you have any talens, fetishes, or gifts of healing? Anything?" Roo was becoming frantic. He wasn't sure how long she would be able to hold on, but he didn't think it could be very much longer.

"Perhaps I may be of assistance," a voice came from the still thickening fog. Another man stepped into view, this one dressed in blue jeans and a ribbon shirt. "We must act quickly. More leeches are on the way. The fog I have summoned will hide us for a time, but we must not tarry. Now, move aside. I will tend to the girl."

Having no time to argue, Roo left his place by Tatjana's side and stood by the kid. "Thanks for the help. I am Ani-Ket-Roo, Ragabash of the Silent Striders. Most just call me 'Roo'." Roo offered his hand.

Taking the proffered hand in his strong grip, they shook. "I'm Kyle. Kyle Nines."

Roo nodded sagely, "You must be an Ahroun."

"Shrugging, "So I'm told."

Nodding towards Tatjana and the other newcomer, Roo asked, "He with you?"

Kyle sighed, "Never seen him before in my life."

"I'm Davian Skywolf, Theurge of the Uktena, and the woman shall be fine after she rests," Davian was now prodding at Kyle's wound. "She will certainly be sore for a few days, may even have trouble speaking, but that will pass." Closing his eyes, Davian placed both hands directly on Kyle's wound and applied pressure.

A moment of pain, then warmth flowed into Kyle. The pained dulled, then subsided, and then vanished completely.

"You, on the other hand, are fine. These gifts work much better on garou."

Roo knelt next to Tatjana's unconscious form, "Is she well enough to move?"

"Yes, that should be safe enough to do."

"Hey," Kyle spoke up, pulling his jacket back on. "I have a van not far from here, and I know a place that we can lay low at."

"Very well, this is acceptable, for we must all speak of things to come." Davian glanced up to where the moon was concealed by fog. "Let us go."

Roo looked to Kyle and raised an eyebrow, but Kyle only shrugged and blew a few errant hairs out of his face.

Hastily, Roo gathered up his scattered belongings, while Kyle picked up Tatjana and headed towards his van.

Davian still gazed up into the sky. "And, so, it has begun," he whispered.


End file.
